


The Incubus Bride - Part 3 of 3

by Protoniuss



Series: The Incubus Bride [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Protoniuss/pseuds/Protoniuss
Summary: An flist log posted with full approval of all participants. It revolves around a manly norscan Chaos Warrior from Warhammer Fantasy dominating and breeding a feminine incubus.
Series: The Incubus Bride [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2144160
Kudos: 2





	The Incubus Bride - Part 3 of 3

Anointed Warlord:  
Weeks passed, the warband breaking camp as they made headway into their newest quarrel - a southlander nation locked in the deepest throes of civil war, its ruler having found his demise and left no declared heir to take his place thus prompting any power-thirsting fool to try and catch themselves a piece of land. The kingdom's name went wholly unspoken amongst the norscans, so little did they care for the mewling southlings that they culled in their wake towards the richest target. A surplus of servants was quickly added to the warband's retinue and they were put to the hardest work as was the lot of thralls.

With the people's highborne having proven themselves little more than mendacious and craven in the time of hardship, the warband had little trouble carving through whatever resistance they encountered, swathes of refugees fleeing from their hard-bitten advance. Soon enough the battle-hardened northlanders stood at the very gates of the capital, the city's defenders determined to do battle, if only to at least keep this roving band of foreign monsters from razing their very hearth and home. While the prospect of a week-long siege did little to impede the norscan onslaught, it was in the end again the nation's decay that quickened their pace: A noble claiming himself to be the rightful heir to the throne, after having elicited the Warlord as support for his claim, covertly opened the city's gates in the dead of night. The hordes of muscled marauders swarmed and overwhelmed whatever defenses the hapless townsfolk managed to muster, the ravenous warhost let loose to sack, raid and rape.

The Warlord naturally rewarded the traitorous nobleman as a traitor deserved: An ignoble noose wrapped around the squealing man's neck as he hanged from the city's gates he had so nicely unbarred.

For the first time in a long while, the incubus found herself in quarters befitting human civilisation. Doubtlessly anachronistic to Kamilla's eyes, the lavish halls and corridors of the royal palace made for a sight both regal and welcoming, expensive-looking carpets, iconographies and noble crests combining into the quintessential impression of a once-majestic feudal housing, its imposing walls meant to cow the low-born into compliance.

But said low-born were quite gone now - unlike their noble masters, the peasants had been quite capable of sensing the incoming danger and legged it thusly, leaving only the fat gaggle of cursing aristocrats whose arrogant demands for lenience and parlay were quickly silenced by disemboweling the loudest of the squealers. The remaining men of the highest caste were quickly given a simple humiliating ultimatum: Death, or acceptance of their existence as menial servants. Those who dared to utter anything beyond an affirmative were promptly whisked off to be beheaded - though the Warlord was not without mercy and promised that the weapons of their execution would be polished swords in acknowledgement of their noble status.

The pitter and patter of dainty feet on stone-floor resounded through the hallway, echoing right alongside the heavy, ground-quaking clang of steel-plated boots, the horned, womb-stamped devil made to march right alongside her hulking owner. From the sight of the scuttling servants it was a perversely barbaric couple - the Warlord holding a leash in a tight grip, visibly ready to pull and puppeteer the incubus by the leather-collar around her neck should she dare to walk out of step. Had they dared to look longer - and risked being found lazy at the job - they might have taken note of some more subtle, stranger sights:

The incubus, having just given birth to another litter, had a languishing, frail gait, sometimes stumbling or waddling with the weakness of a difficult labor. She had only just managed to deliver her biggest litter yet - no less than six large-grown and already-walking offspring, the utmost product of her inhuman fecundity and the Warlord's tireless poitency. Whenever she stumbled, the Warlord was there to lay a steady hand on her shoulder. A few times he had to catch her outright, taking several long moments to let her lean against him for recovery as he cast baleful gazes at any servant that dared to look longer than a second. The grip on her leash was little more than ceremonial.

Finally they arrived at a door hewn of spotless marble, a sweet scent of oils and soaps emanating from the room behind. The Warlord carefully set the incubus down on the ground after having carried her in his arms the last stretch of the way - his harsh voice reminding her that he was only carrying her like a bride because this was the most expedient measure. 

"This is what they call a 'bathroom'." came his hard tone as a scar-marred hand remained carefully locked around Kamilla's shoulder, ensuring that any further stumblings would be caught swiftly. His other hand pushed open the door, revealing to the incubus a room of marble-white, the furnishings of some noble denoting this as a hastily-equipped private chamber. The most major item was of course the tub, already filled with warm, inviting water that exuded slight trails of steam.

"Another set of servants will be here soon for further deliveries. Can you walk? The ground is slippery." his voice remained cold and matter-of-factly, but the steadying hand remained set upon Kamilla's shoulder - the Warlord was clearly only going to let go if she assured him.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Kamilla's efforts to bolster the Warlord's highest caste of berserkers was something to be applauded. At least, in terms of fertility. Just over a few nights, they had given him a new squadron. Over the few weeks, perhaps a couple of months that he'd owned them, he has been given numbers that rank among that of a battalion of absolutely vicious offspring. They looked to be almost exactly in the form of Ribspreader, with some very clear differences, and lacking the distinct potency of himself. The incubus was giving him spawn that were worthy of a Warlord. But even among the norscan, the idea of taking care of such a successful broodmother, was very clear. Breaking this small thing apart, would deprive the warband, let alone himself, of such gifts. The poor thing reduced to a state of weak-legged twitching.

The Warlord would most definitely be hard pressed to ignore the reactions his marked slut was giving him. Those soft whimpers, as they leaned up against him. The fact that when he wanted to walk with them, leash in hand, that they wanted to wrap their arms around his strong, superior arm, in order to steady their gait. They looked like a babe in the woods, a young doe that had just been put into the world upon unsteady legs. Such a thing undermined the image he was going for, but there was something about how they were acting... The mother of his young. His proud military caste. Brought to be so weak, after delivering such a monumentous achievement. Something that could spark something strange within the man... Paternal, in tandem with his unrelenting dominance. They nestled against Ribspreader, as the two entered the bathroom. Letting out a soft mewling, as they tried to straighten their legs, their lips quivering, as they held onto the man's arm, trying to steady their gait.

Finally placed upon the ground, their eyes slowly look down upon the marble tile. Swallowing hard, they look back up towards the Warlord. Their eyes shaking in place, as they try and think of something to say. They were scared to admit the truth, that their legs felt like jelly. That the smooth soles of their feet felt like they could slip at any time. They remain leaned against the larger man. Their owner. Their breath hitching in the back of their throat, as they looked up at him. With a pitiful look to their face, they seemed to appear so much... Softer, than they normally are. Their legs constantly spread, after the rough birthing. Walking with a gait that was more at home with waddling, than actually walking. They look down, and shake their head. Their normal feisty behavior dulled. A light twinge of fear surrounding the prospect of both lying, and telling him the truth.

"I... Think I'd trip..." They admit, eyes glancing across the smooth floor.

Anointed Warlord:  
The Warlord's face remained pitiless, the strong features of his comely visage seeming impossible to scrutinize as he looked down at his weakened broodmare. His eyes emitted their ethereal glow, casting a pale gaze characteristically used to glower at foes and subjects alike; a stare that promised punishment for even the slightest mistake. Her frail words made the calloused hand on her shoulder tense, corded ropes of muscle-fiber visibly contracting with the frightening strength contained within.

Silently, quietly, the Warlord's other hand let go of her leash, came about and took a careful hold around Kamilla's rear, allowing him to once again lift her up into his powerful arms. This time he was carrying her like an infant, her lovely face allowed to press into his chiseled front as his chin lightly touched the top of her hair. It took him a bit to duck his way through the door, the frame having not been carved with his behemoth-stature in mind, before he slowly made his way to the bathtub. Each of his steps was placed with attempted care and deliberate slowness, though his immense bulk was simply unused to such gentleness, his broad feet far too accustomed to hammer a threatening stomp. But slowly he went, a protective arm around Kamilla's back. Close as she was now - perhaps even closer than their usual acts - she could feel the furnace-like heat coming from his body and the sheer tautness of his sculpted body. The Warlord, baleful and inscrutable as he usually was, seemed under an amount of stress, the ligaments and sinews of his muscled frame all tensed with the weight he was currently bearing.

Finally they reached the tub, the warmth of the steam-emitting water seeming only slightly more pronounced than the powerful heat of the Ribspreader's enveloping grip. Slowly, carefully, he let her down into the water, giving her time to get accustomed to the new temperature as her weakened figure was greeted by the gentle heating.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Kamilla feels the man's tensed musculature. Their eyes slowly tracing over his strained, corded muscles. Their soft, smooth fingertips slowly trace over the man's contours, and traces the bunched masses of potent ligaments. Their eyes slowly close, as they're brought close to his heat. In this moment, the Warlord is able to feel their throbbing heartbeat. The small organ pitter pattering away, as though they were like a rabbit in his arms. His hands sank into their curves, their soft, pliant skin was pleasing to the senses. Something that couldn't be denied, their hips were becoming wider, their rear becoming more plush. Kamilla was perhaps one of the most fertile whores he'd owned. Memories of that swaying, gravid stomach, bearing several of his young at once, fresh upon the mind...

"Are you... Ashamed of me?" Kamilla finally asks of him. The words that left their soft lips were something that would likely bring something of a surprise. Their eyes looking up towards him, as he began to lower them into the water. Their mind was thinking of things they had no right to, now. Many times, they were thinking of things that only men had the right to think of. The faggot cursed with not being able to fully surrender their thoughts to Ribspreader, allow him to do all the thinking. It took quite a bit of effort to find them, during one of their gloomier times, and fuck them senseless enough to think of things that good faggots should think of. Cock, cum, and bearing his young. That's all their mind needed to think of, yet here they were... Thinking of things they had no business with. What's next, thinking they should get a trade?

From this position, Ribspreader could see, in full glory, the mark upon their womb. The mark that ordained his ownership of Kamilla. Of his undying protection, and claim upon them, until their broken state.

Slowly, Kamilla was let into the water. Their eyes slowly flutter closed, as their long locks of ruby-auburn begin to flare out, sinking within the cloudy-with-soap depths of the bath. Their body twitched, as they felt the sensation of hot water. It felt so foreign, after all the time with Ribspreader. But it was comfortable, and coated their senses. They offered a soft, yet uncertain smile. They didn't struggle, and simply accepted their place, within his hands. He could kill them with ease, snap their neck, or force them beneath the water until they choked. But... He chose not to. And that brought comfort.

Anointed Warlord:  
The Warlord was fundamentally opposed to looking at something frail and doing anything but stomp on it with an iron boot. Norscan culture was based upon culling the weak and battling the strong. Sorts like Kamilla were less than crow-chow in such a virile society - they were prey of prey, feed used to assuage beasts of burden. And yet, here this womb-branded succuboi was, before him, placed in a refreshing tub of a civilisation he would sooner raze to the ground than adapt himself to.

He was used to plowing into his uterus-stamped slut with relentless power, his potency-spurred senses driving him to fuck his mark into the slut, destroy her hole for any lesser cock and make her utterly subservient to only him. It had been her sheer reciprocation, her own eager spreading of her rear and presentation of her fertile hole just for him that had inflamed his appetite again and again, his need to breed her fertile womb, to claim every egg within her as his own driving him to ever more imperious rutting-sessions. Even now as her birth-broken body slowly squirmed beneath rejuvenation did his desire flare with unremitting intensity, the simple flatness of her stomach a glaring flaw to his eyes. A hot, steaming breath emerged with a hiss from the Warlord's maw, evidence of his pent-up need washing over Kamilla's features.

"'Ashamed'...?" he echoed with a growling voice, the pale glow of his eyes hiding a titanic struggle between passion and demand. "I..." he spoke, his tone gravelly as every fiber of his being was used to restrain himself from lunging and claiming her right then and there "...want you." he finished, the simple word the only utterance he could think of at that moment, as a palpable, potent heat emanated from his goliath-frame. His need to own her. His need to conquer her. To let any and all comers know she was his. To make her squeal and beg for him. It made him quiver and growl, hands grasping the rim of the bathtub as his bared visage drew ever closer to Kamilla's face.

Suddenly he stopped, his features mere inches from the incubus, their noses touching as his mouth remained open in a wordless grunt. Slowly he let his head sink, carefully resting his cranium against Kamilla's chest. He took in her scent in deep, possessive breaths, noting with satisfaction that anyone could conclude his ownership of her just by the power of his marks upon her. "You are mine." he growled, a hand reaching out to rub across her stomach, stroking the brand permanently embedded into her.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Ribspreader could hear the pitter patter of their tiny heart. Something about it, being this close, was soothing. Something about it was nostalgic. This was rare. Something that very few norscan took the time to chew upon. It was like sipping on a fine brandy, after a long day, while the masses quaffed down swill as though it didn't matter in the slightest. The Warlord could hear, oh so potently, just what effect he was having upon his slave. Just by his presence, he could hear their heart throb. He had an unseen power, that was just natural to his existence. He could make this small thing swoon, just by entering the room with them on the edge of a leash. He could make them spasm, giving him a breathy gasp, just by running his hands along their supple, hairless curves.

Finally, they were submerged, their head the only thing above the water. They let out a soft, careful sigh, as their eyes slowly fluttered closed. The poor thing seemed to finally find some rest, in the warm waters of the bath. They had no energy to scrub anything upon their body, however. Their arms were weak, and their stomach hurt. Their legs finally gave out, and were ragdolled against the bottom of the bath. Their body was simply that of the ordinary faggot. The norscan warband had been seeing an influx of these, since his repeated domination of Kamilla. His men's morale was at an all time high, as faggots flooded the makeshift markets, to be used and bred. The gut-wrenching mewling and screams of pleasure that echoed throughout the camps were now something that was like... What the people of this milk-blooded land equated to hearing birds, in the early morning.

As his nose buried against them, he could smell their fertile heat against their frame. It was something befitting what they were. The smell of eggs, it could be sensed. They were able to be claimed, but it was something that went against what he was seeing. The cries of their womb for seed was something weaker than what he was used to. Perhaps something was wrong with this faggot? Their weakened state seemingly implying their fertility was dropping. Something that could not be allowed. Their body had to be reminded, just who was in charge. It wasn't a faggot's place to think of things like this. As he reached out to touch their brand, however, he could feel that elusive womb... Twitching against his palm.

Kamilla's eyes close, as they silently wrap their hands around the man's head. A slow dribbling of tears leaving down their eyes.

Anointed Warlord:  
He held that position, seemingly just taking in her scent, his hand testing and chancing his faggot's body. Subconsciousely, his breath was synching up with Kamilla's heartbeat, the sound of her vitae pumping towards her womb, communicating to its owner that the eggs were present, but cowed.

"Mine." he intoned with emphasis, stroking her belly, before his hand wandered up. Grasping hold of her chin, the Warlord raised his head, looking Kamilla straight into the eyes as he repeated with significance "Mine." He dove in, his mouth catching that of the incubus in a savage kiss, his tongue tangling with hers, impressing upon her his superior size. Then he suddenly broke the kiss, a determined expression on his face as he pulled back. "All of you is mine." he growled this statement of a simple fact.

His other hand came around and the Warlord once again grasped hold of Kamilla's body, lifting her into his arms out of the water like she was but a featherweight. "Your body." he spoke, his naked foot taking a step into the tub "Your breath." his other foot planted itself in the tub, the material of it creaking underneath his mammoth weight. "Your womb." Slowly, keeping her steady in his arms, the Warlord sank his back into the bathing-basin, the incubus made to lay across his chest with her back against him "Even your feelings." he spoke with heated breath, the both of them now resting in the overfilled tub, water splashing down from the rim as the Warlord's mass far exceeded what was supposed to hold but a single human. "All mine." the Ribspreader growled down at his personal broodmare, pulling her up to once again catch her in a domineering kiss. Meanwhile, his hands were roaming across Kamilla's body, stroking, testing and petting each inch of his property. They were sharing everything now, every experience, every bit of warmth exchanged, their heartbeats throbbing - hers simpering, his pounding - together in wild harmony.

With the incubus laying with her back upon the Warlord's chest, it would have been a simple measure for her to look up just slightly between her legs - and by extension his - to spot the Ribspreader's hulking erection, standing straight up like a spire of granite, harder than she had ever seen this frightening pillar of cockmeat. She was vulnerable in every regard, weak, frail, enveloped and worthless in his grasp - and yet, all he chose to do was continue their kiss and let their closeness be his price.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Kamilla softly smiles, as they're brought close. The larger man was always warm. When he was sleeping, they would always slyly melt into him, just to feel the warmth of another person being so close. Though he was awake for all of it. The Warlord knew just how much Kamilla loved him. For the longest time, the incubus showered him in affection, only when his eyes closed, the dumb faggot not knowing that a man like him didn't even need sleep. It was strange. They came to him, not to be pounded senseless, they would've woken him up for that. But for his warmth. To feel his strength all around them. In those tender moments, that Kamilla probably saw as one-sided, a secret thing that was just beneath the Warlord's nose. It was something that made him feel akin to a god, in those tender moments. Feeling their soft hands over his calloused, leathery skin. Feeling their quivering breath catching in the back of their throat, when he'd raise his arms, just slightly. Kamilla loved him. But it was something that even the Warlord could notice, that they felt somewhat... Hollow. As though it were unreciprocated. 

He began to extol his ownership of the fag. Their eyes began to rest, as they're held into position. The savage kiss... He could feel their desperation, behind their tongue. How much they wanted him to continue on his kiss. It would be heart-wrenching, if he hadn't developed callouses over that organ. They didn't quiver in fear, when he kissed them like this. No, they... They quivered in adoration. Their body reacting to his touch. Just his touch, as though it was the only thing that mattered to them. Their soft, silky, moist mouth something that begged him to stay inside of it. Their hands grasping at the back of his head. Everything was pleading for him to remain. He could remember those nights, where they would squirm in fear, looking for his warm embrace, like he knew how to be compassionate to such a small thing's needs.

But their desires... It was something that they hid from him. Something that he couldn't indulge in front of his clan. Something that perhaps, was so foreign, he didn't fully know how to give them. A gaping maw was forming in their chest. An emptiness that they would not admit to, while he was 'awake'. Only during those moments shared when he would pretend to sleep, he would see the incubus's fears. Something that wished it could find comfort with him, but was too afraid to admit. Their eyes slowly fluttering open. Trying to use the water to hide their tears... Resting the back of their head against his strong frame. Their eyes looked towards his hulking erection.

Their body tensed. He could smell the small thing's fear... Their body so easy to break, in this state... All it would take would be a single lapse in control. Or a disregard for their safety. Their heartbeat breaking against the pattern, jolting wildly. Though they looked relaxed... The Warlord knew their fear was pluming in the air...

Anointed Warlord:  
"My life's been a savage thing from the very start," the Warlord's voice, harsh and stark, purposely hissed into Kamilla's ear as her fearful gaze rested on his turgid column of cock ", and it'll likely be just so till I find my end." two rows of sharp teeth gnashed onto one another, the Ribspreader ensuring that Kamilla could sense the bitter frustration in his voice by the threatening sound near her hearing "My path invariably leads towards the absolute." he continued, his faggot's fright palpabe in the air "I thrive on focus." his voice resounded into Kamilla's head, each hiss cutting into her ears "And I eat fear."

Before the captive incubus's eyes, the Ribspreader's womb-wrecking length gave visible twitches, streams of pre lazily streaming from the tip, the weight-stretched scrotum simply incapable of containing the sheer virility churning and gargling within. This massive whore-breaker was more than ready to destroy her, it was twitching, pulsating, hungering to be thrust into her, right here, right now, irregardless for - or perhaps even because of - her weakened, frail state. The potent heat emanating from the Warlord's body increased further yet, indicating the sheer lust raging within him, reflected even further by the immense anger of that achingly hard horsecock.

"Several of my warriors and even a good number of our sons have taken up a certain craft." his baleful voice continued, the angry gnashing of his teeth near her ear emphatic, deliberate "They take those ass-offering sluts that look useable and try to turn them into something like you - broodmothers, fagcunts, fucksluts." he emitted a single, hollow laugh, just another translation of his annoyance "There are whispers around my men; that some are trying to create a harem, or additional sluts for me - in return for positions of status or items of power." his tone ebbed, his expression giving way to exhaustion "Some others might also try to buy you from me. Just to have the privilege of breaking you."

The heat emanating from his body suddenly took a notable dip, the raging hardness of the Ribspreader going momentarily still. 

"But they won't have you." he spoke, the threatening gnashing of teeth gone, replaced by raw decisiveness "Let them try to offer me inferior sluts - I won't take them. Let them try to buy you with trinkets and gifts - I won't accept them." the Warlord's head dipped forward, his nose sinking into Kamilla's hair, taking in the sweet scent "Let our children have their harems - I want no more than you."

One of his hands reached up, clasping a firm, but gentle hold on Kamilla's cheek to make the incubus look her owner as directly in the eye as she could "I want you with me." his head dipped closer, his lips planting a gentle kiss on Kamilla's forehead "I want you to the utmost." he nuzzled her, a forlorn look in his eyes as he let his lips kiss slowly downwards, over her temple down to her cheek, inching ever closer to those full, beautiful lips "And I want you forever." He kissed her lips, still with dominance, but unlike any other time this affection lacked the savagery. It was a slow, sensuous kiss, a passionate and deep tangling of their tongues, his desire not only to taste her, but also to let her taste him. His hands were gently roaming her now, softly petting and slowly stroking her.

This time he was not the one to break the kiss, leaving it entirely to her. The warm water splashed over their bodies, a comfortable togetherness enveloping them that only the two could share.

Kamilla Arzt:  
It was the longest kiss that the two shared. Kamilla didn't pull away. They couldn't. Their mind was so wired, to just desperately cling to the man's affections, no matter how curt they may be, that they couldn't give it up. Pulling them into the kiss, their tongue entwined with his. He could feel their body shuddering against him. But he could finally taste them, so thoroughly. Their mouth was smooth to the touch, his tongue finding almost anywhere within, comfortable. It was the same mouth that he struggled to get his length into, the same mouth that worshipped his body. The same mouth that softly prayed that he'd not one day snap their neck, and send them to the butcher to be reduced to dog chow. So many things, this mouth did. So many scared things. So many things that were becoming, of a small, weak, prey. They were a rabbit. Something so easily killed, something so easily disposed of. Something that was practically made to lick the boots of their superiors, and thank them as they curbstomped them.

Why did it inspire the things it did? The urge for protection... Why did that cloying, feminine voice come to him? They were owned, but surely, if they suffered so, they could easily find a suitor in the camp to deal with those needs.

But here they were. Content to barely hide their anguish. Their fingers grasping at the back of the man's head, pulling him closer, as they gasp for air-- Breaking apart for a single second, before diving back in, kissing him deeply. It was wet. sloppy. Not at all anything dignified, or something seen from the nobles that used the room before these two. He could feel their tongue quiver. He could feel the hands at the back of his head, shaking. It was an eternity. Pulling him closer, and closer. The gasping breaths exchanged between the two. Feeling their body tense against his, when they were running out of air. Feeling their supple curves relaxing, once they gasped for more. It was an unremitting cycle. He could feel the pent up energy that was stored behind each second of the shared embrace. Ribspreader was shown, just how deep their affections ran. His owned property, how much they adored him, how much they were willing to show, if given the chance.

For a moment, it was as though he was the only man in the world. As though nothing else in the world mattered, in the eyes of his incubus. His Kamilla.

His tongue was thick. They would often gag on the size of it, when they would get more desperate, feeling the rough texture against the inside of their throat. But they didn't care. They wanted to show him. They wanted to feel him inside of them, in a way that they had never experienced before. Their body was shaking now, in his grasp. They couldn't breathe, with how far mashed together their faces were. How far down Ribspreader's tongue was shoved down their throat. They desperately tried to suck in air, but Kamilla wasn't so lucky. They were taken by passion, taken by the very thing that they had suppressed for so long. Kamilla didn't care if they choked, tying to prove to him, just how deeply it ran. They didn't care if they passed out. Their vision began to tunnel, colors began to sharpen.

... Before they pulled back. Saliva bridging the gap between the two's tongues. They were gasping, almost blue in the face... Eyes trained upon the Warlord, trying to see if he felt anything... Anything at all, to their response to his declaration to him. Their heart throbbing in the back of their throat.

Their body feeling just a tad weaker...

Anointed Warlord:  
The Warlord's bulked-out body, already flexing and twisting with the struggle he put into restraining his masculine urges, tensed even further yet as their kiss held on. Their tongues tangled and shoved, his naturally overtaking hers, guided and swallowed deep into her welcoming throat. Theirs was a primal act of passion, of emotions born from various extremes, his from lust and decades-lasting hollowness, hers from fear and needy want. He tasted what she felt, her tongue wordlessly communicating her anguish, her fright and indigence, her complete and utter desire for him in ways beyond the physical.

He struggled. Never had his turgid length been harder and more wanting, throbbing, twitching and spattering pre-cum with raw need - his mind assaulted by the ravenous, piercing drive to own, to claim and declare her as his. Every part of her now signalled her frailty and want, her fear driving into him a strange plethora of unknown feelings that his hard-bitten mind chose to digest in the most primal of ways: To assuage her doubts and insecurities, his body demanded that he take her, mount her, conquer her deepest depths and turn her into a mess of squealing lusts whose mind was too intent on satisfying him, so fulfilled in the throes of loving pleasure that the mere prospect of misery would become a distant memory. It was a man's duty to take his slut and drive the thoughts of bleakness away through power, potency and, indeed, love.

When the kiss broke, the incubus's heaving breaths washing over the trails of spittle connecting their mouths, the Warlord made a decision. Her eyes intently trying parse his thoughts could have picked up a vehemence, his gaze sharp as steel. The twitches and expulsions of his hyperpotent erection were audible amidst the quietude, his heart pounding in his chest with the roaring need to take her. "I want you." he spoke, his tone straight and determined "I want no one else to have you." his arms locked around her, his strong muscled biceps embracing his Kamilla with jealous possessiveness "I want you more than anything in the world."

His leg-like length remained towering and angry, audibly gurgling and churning with the frightening amount of virility being mass-produced within, but the Warlord's embrace remained unfaltering. He clutched his Kamilla to himself, surrounded her with every inch of muscled frame he could, wanting her beyond all only to himself.

Kamilla Arzt:  
Finally, Kamilla began to allow their body to loosen against the Warlord. Something about what had just happened, was like a mental climax. It took all of their energy to mount that desperate plea. To try and get the man to acknowledge their feelings, even if the risk of him not understanding it was present. The hole in Kamilla's chest was slowly being mended, but it was still sparsely inhabited with dents and divots, much like a sponge. They were weak, in this moment. Ribspreader could say anything, and it would affect them deeply. In this moment, if he told them to feed their own body to the dogs, they would do so. If he told them to tie a noose, and execute themself for his viewing pleasure, they would. He had absolute power over them. Not in just the physical, but in ways that could not be seen. In a way that truly, could undo them entirely. Far beyond the temporary gasps of pleasure, glassy eyes filled with lust and mindless mewling for his cock. The words he said here, would sear into their very soul. Like the brand that was present upon their stomach, displayed against the water. A constant reminder of the oath he'd sworn.

They weakly began to shift, on his front. They were weak, in how they managed to do it. It was like watching a newly born deer try and take its first steps. Their lithe little body was free of most of the strain that it had once carried. It was entirely lax, for there was no more energy to be nervous. They manage to settle their stomach against the Warlord's own. Resting against him, their body conforming to the contours of his abdominals, their face resting upon his pecs. To the small, frail thing, they were like rough pillows. Tilting their head to the side, they rested upon it, and simply... Listened. The two's heartbeat began to sync, finally. And the Warlord could see that the sound of his own heartbeat, was something that brought them great comfort. Kamilla was his, and his alone. This would be the very thing that would prove it to him. After all this, they had bled out their heart in a way that they could not have done any way else. They had laid their feelings out, and prostrated it in its entirety before the Warlord, as though it was a grand sacrifice to the gods. And the words that he would say, would determine their future. Branding into their very soul.

Finally, his arms began to surround Kamilla.

He could feel their heart skip. A burst of fear, as though they expected the man to do something horrible. Perhaps rip their head from their shoulders, and simply laugh. But once he started to speak... He could feel their heart begin to settle back down. Begin to pace itself in such a way that was something more... Natural. This was one of the reasons that faggots shouldn't think on their own. They would think about things that didn't matter. Things that they were too dumb to understand. That was the role of real men in this warband. To make the decisions that their whores cant. So ruled by their soft, squishy, vulnerable emotions, that they couldn't think straight without sobbing. Ribspreader was the perfect fit for Kamilla. The incubus that embodied the femininity that locked them into this role. A failed male. Something to be owned, and looked after. After all, who's to say this failed male wouldn't go off and rut with the likes of horses? It's by the graces of a real man, like the Warlord himself, that they're shown the light, and the proper way to live. Under a real man. Serving, as is their duty.

He could feel something soft, prodding against his thigh. It was almost comedic, that small thing. Kamilla's cocklette. So tiny, and soft. Like everything about them.

"I'm scared..." The admission finally comes, as they bury their face into the man's chest. The truth that he had already known, after listening to them speak in their sleep. The truth that was hardwritten into their role in his warband. Their soft body tries its hardest to hug him, as hard as it can. "I don't wanna be alone... Don't leave me..."

Anointed Warlord:  
"You will never leave me." came his stalwart voice in answer, as much a reassurance as it was a decision "I own you, every part of you, every fibre of your being - all of them are mine, and everyone shall know it so, for my marks are undeniable." His grasp around her tightened, their bodies entangled, each signalling the need for the other's closeness.

"You are a weak, vulnerable thing - a natural victim, prey for true males." he stated the obvious, the undeniable, proof of the incubus's inferiority all measured starkly by the sinewy strength clutching her against the chiseled chest "What is between the two of us is nought but the natural conclusion of two polar opposites meeting: Your need to be controlled assuaged by my dominance, your weakness propped up by my power, your neediness answered by my potency, your femininity satisfied by my virility." His hand patiently stroked her back, his body remaining tense and heated with the bestial needs contained within "You fell into my grasp - almost literally. The mere fact that you entered my line of sight and became even faintly noticeable to my perceptions - it sealed your fate as my marked property, as my most prized possession."

He looked into his Kamilla's eyes with steel-like focus "The possibility of you and I ever parting is null, for I shall challenge all comers and strike down any takers. You are my marked slut, my prime broodmare, my treasured breeding bitch, my beloved faggot-cunt. Taking you from me shall be a proposition that even the gods should quiver afore, for even the divine must pause before they tear into the natural laws of existence."

Kamilla Arzt:  
A soft smile crosses their face, as they look into Ribspreader's eyes. The words he was saying, all of it, was taken to heart. Their uncertain, anxious approach melted away in the arms of his assurances. They seemed to melt, into the larger man's arms. It was a calming, soothing sensation that brought them great joy, just to be able to take part in. Finally, they nestled against him.

They were laying upon him, as though he were a massive mattress. The mere feeling in which was something that brought them a sort of comfort that they could not explain better than the Warlord had. They offer the man a kiss, right on the man's chest, as they simply... Soak in the bath, with him. The rising steam was enough to bring them closer to a sleep-like state. Their mind was cementing what he had said to them, deep into their psyche. What he said on this day, would follow them for the rest of their life. This much, was absolutely certain. Caught in the man's grasp, they were finally at home. Though they came from the distant stars, nothing had felt more close to home, than in his arms. They offer the Warlord a soft nip, against his chest. Their dainty teeth only serving to give a pleasing sensation, rather than anything painful, against the bulky mounds.

"I love you." Kamilla finally says. Their mind slowly slipping, as they seem to embrace the warmth of the bath. Perhaps scarily relaxed, as they seem to enjoy it on a deeper sense than simply lounging around in hot water. It was teetering on the very edge of sleep. Very close to he prospect of entirely just... Entering perhaps one of the deeper sleeps that they could manage, these last few months. Their legs slowly shifting, rubbing against the man's proud, angrily throbbing cock.

Anointed Warlord:  
I love you. The words elicited a noticeable twitch in the Ribspreader's mammoth frame, his breath hitched in his throat for but a moment before he exhaled with force. A plethora of unknown feelings, of twinges unexperienced before, whirled throughout his body. A warmth bloomed beneath his chest, a satisfying heat so unlike the aching need burning within his loins. The Warlord was a creature to whom such emotions were wholly foreign - and usually he would despise them out of principle.

"I..." he began, trying to answer, but found himself incapable. So confusing was this outburst that he couldn't put it into coherent words, for he was a being of wicked war and cruel carnage. Unable to articulate himself, he instead replied with a renewed tightness to his embrace, a warm and desperate hugging. Finding this insufficient, the Warlord shifted his features into his Kamilla's hair, lightly kissing her head, just wanting to be as close as possible as she slowly drifted into a relaxed, dim-minded rest.

The proof of his potency continued to stand out stark and unremitting, as if exuding appallment by the sickening prospect of not having been shoved into this slut's empty womb. The chunky, hyperdense contents in his overfilled balls rippled and undulated with audible need to be pumped into their natural home - Kamilla's uterus, bare and vulnerable. It took the Ribspreader every ounce of willpower to suppress this destructive urge, the unseen struggle raging within him coming off as continually-increasing warmth that assuaged the incubus all the more that his presence was her natural place in the world.

"... you are mine." he stated what he had stated before, unable to put his strange new feelings into words in any other measure. "... rest now, my bride." his voice took on a relenting tone "Sleep, dream of the future and leave your present all to me."


End file.
